


Romantic Nonsense

by orphan_account



Series: Very Sincerely, Yours [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unilock, Unrequited Love, love letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock writes another letter to John Watson after discovering some disturbing news about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romantic Nonsense

**Author's Note:**

> I really did plan on having John respond to Sherlock's first letter. I started about half a dozen letter and finished one that I planned on posting, but it didn't feel quite right. Then while I was at work a few lines to this letter popped into my head and the lines of John's response followed. Things just seemed to fit better with this set-up.

Dear John,

 

                You don’t remember me, nor should you considering it has been four years since we last saw one another. It hardly seems possible that so much time has passed, and yet here we are. I would not be writing to you now except Lestrade mentioned you. I’m sure he had no idea how his innocent comment would affect me. He was visiting me, forcing me to suffer through a recounting of everyone from uni, when your name was mentioned.

                There is a letter addressed to you that I never sent. In this letter I explained to you that I had fallen in love with you after a mere three meetings. Despite the fact that I do not believe in love at first sight or even really love. Since you were being deployed I asked you to please not die so that I could more easily obsess over you. You are not dead, but you are injured.

                Lestrade’s inexact account is that you have shrapnel in your leg. He actually said this as though this was anywhere near enough information on your injury. He insists that’s all he knows and nothing I say will get him to reveal more. He _was_ able to tell me that you are healing well, on leave, and expect to go back soon. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m telling you this or what this has to do with me. Excellent questions.

                First of all, thank you for successfully staying alive thus far. I wrote that letter with some vague notion that I would mail it to you so you would know that at least one person was impatiently waiting for you to return home. So that if you did something stupid and died you would know I love you. I never sent it because I decided that being forgotten by you was infinitely better than being pitied or hated by you.

                I was not aware that you had been injured because… Well, you can read the envelope, you know my location. I shall leave you to your deductions. So why am I writing to you again – with a much clearer intention of mailing this letter – after all this time? Because I did obsess over you for a little more than two years after you were deployed. I saw how well army life suited you, how you loved it. Now that you are injured I’m sure you are eager to get back and angry at your body for the betrayal of not being invincible. Possibly you’re even blaming yourself for your stupidity. So I wanted to take the time to explain to you why… well, a great deal of things I suppose.

                I have long since grown accustomed to people not liking me when they first meet me. I am too intelligent, too observant, and too sharp for most people. They find me arrogant and cruel. The few people who can be said to like me now did not like me when first we met.

                Molly Hooper thinks she liked me immediately – she even, briefly, deluded herself into ‘loving’ me – but she was dazzled by my intelligence and apparent good looks. Moly has terrible taste in men, as evidenced by her continued relationship with my brother. Lestrade knew I was brilliant and interesting so he tolerated me. Now he claims he likes me and I am inclined to believe him. He spends too much of his time with me of his own freewill not to like me.

                For a very long time I thought initial tolerance and eventual liking were the best I could hope for from my interactions with others. Although immediate and lasting dislike was to be the norm. Most people would never believe it but there was a time when I did try to… be different. To make myself more likable. Nothing I did ever seemed to make a difference so I gave up. It was just easier to accept the facts as they were than try to change them.

                Then I met you and realised someone could like me right away simply for me. That seems like a stupid thing to say, considering one of the first things you said to me was a compliment to my intelligence. But that’s not _why_ you liked me. I was rude to Anderson and, even though you reprimanded me, you were amused. We spoke for a considerable time that night and most of what I said could be deemed ‘inappropriate’ topics, because generally all my conversation is, but you kept on talking. I’m not sure what I did to make you think that I was someone worth speaking to but I am glad I did it. Speaking with you that night, the next night, and after the lecture are still cherished memories of mine. All because you smiled at me and believed I was someone likable.

                You see, John before I met you it was suggested by a few acquaintances that I could calm my mind with certain substances. I’m sure you can come up with plausible theories on which substances were suggested and chosen. Lestrade forced that tedious salsa club on me before I could indulge. Except there was you so it wasn’t so tedious after all. John Watson, you should perhaps be studied because you calmed me the way no drug has been able to duplicate. You excited me the way no experiment had been able to do.

                For a considerable amount of time the mere memory of you was enough to have me avoiding my supply when I was tempted. Although you were unaware of it, you were the primary reason I was sober for those first two years. I want – need – you to understand that my mind has always tormented me. It can tear itself apart if not given enough stimulant. From a young age I have endeavored to master my mind, with disappointingly low results.

                My brother claims to be smarter than I am, I disagree. However he has never struggled with his mind the way I struggle with mine. Mycroft has always been master of his own mind, even as he is master of human kind in general. It’s how he came to be the British Government at such a young age. Mycroft made countless attempts to help me, but nothing helped.

                This is what I wish you to know John Watson: I was nothing more than a blimp in your life, but you were everything to me. Everything I aspired to be, every good intention, every kind ideal, every breath, every word, and every thought. Right now you are frustrated and feel useless but don’t. Don’t, because for so long the mere and barest memory of you saved me. You were my miracle because for a boy resigned to the whole world hating him, having you find him likable meant the world. Is it any wonder my pathetic, stupid heart decided to try to glue itself to yours?

                Even now knowing that you will read this and be disappointed that I succumbed to substance abuse makes me want to get clean. I am _not_ an addict. I have perfect control over my abuse of substances but I cannot convince Lestrade and Mycroft of that. To put it simply, they overreact. I know that you won’t see a distinction between casual use and addiction though. Either way you will be disappointed so I will get clean.

                I suppose that I should warn you that I will most likely go back to stalking you. Surprisingly, after all this time and distance, I find I still care for you. (By the way, your social media is _wonderful_ for stalkers. I told you this already but you never got that letter.) When Lestrade mentioned your name my stomach did that unpleasant thing it tends to do when you are involved. I was alarmed to find out it could still do that in truth.

                Along with this letter I am sending you flowers. They are the same flowers I sent to your mother’s funeral. I sent those flowers anonymously with a lie about how much your mother had touched my life. I never met your mother in reality. Although she did give the world, and through default myself, John Watson. I will always stand in awe of that accomplishment. Did you like the flowers, John? Did they offer you any sort of comfort? Or were they a burden? A reminder of what you had lost?

                I hope you were comforted by _something_ or _someone_ during that time. I don’t express emotion very well – actually, I am a brilliant actor. The problem is I don’t maintain the emotion very well over a long period of time. However, let me tell you, with the upmost sincerity that I was and am sorry for your loss.             

                Doctors make terrible patients I’m told so try not to anger the nurses. I’ve learned that they control everything and they are the difference between an acceptable visit and a disastrous visit. One would think that _healthcare providers_ would be above such behavior, but of course they aren’t. Tedious.

                Don’t die because I want you alive in the most selfish way imaginable. _Stop_ doing things that incite me to write romantic nonsense. It’s horrible, and tedious, and dull, and I hate it.

 

 

Very Sincerely,

S. Holmes


End file.
